like getting lost and ending up in Pasadena

and the girl, the girl is torn, torn because she doesn’t know what to do; never knows what to do.
and for whatever is “right” and :just”, there are, perhaps, infinite things neither “right” nor “just” .
And so, so she follows the heart, or tries to, which, once or twice, led her astray- like the time she found herself crying, alone, at a gas station in Pasadena- convulsive, wretched sobs. Sobs that make fingers, hands and wrists go numb- sobs that no more belong on the highway than they do in dark bathrooms, railcards, crack houses- under bridges, overpasses.
sobs. sobs that fade away into nothing- are void.
Pasadena II
Sobs that are void- stupid. sobs that make gas station men come out with Supersize-Me sized American paper cups of water- water with ice-!- Water that is good, great, even. Water that brings back feeling, and makes everything okay, again.

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